


a wind passes by

by gryffiths



Series: beneath the zenith of the sun [3]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Scratching, Self-Harm, Timeline What Timeline, it's lightish but please don't read if triggering, renekton is Trying His Best, sibling feels, those aren't good thinking patterns nasus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25524562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffiths/pseuds/gryffiths
Summary: he's wandered off. nasus goes to find him.(or, siblings chill despite problems. and it helps.)
Relationships: Nasus & Renekton (League of Legends)
Series: beneath the zenith of the sun [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1439491
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	a wind passes by

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: description of **self-harm as scratching** even though the character in question is a reptile.
> 
> lemme have some good ol' healing pls and thanks. can't do angst sometimes. idk the timeline, how other champs are doing or whatever the fuck. i'm just trying to hurt less.
> 
> [bae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootacularCrimson) who betas <3

Taliyah had caught Nasus under the veranda, a concerned look on her face. She told him that their guest had left his room and that the emperor’s soldiers were keeping an eye out for him. There was no news of destruction from a fit of rage, but she cautions him. Their guest was last seen wandering in the gardens, glaring at anyone that came close. 

Nasus nods, thanking her, picking himself up from the bench, setting aside his scroll and leaving his axe behind. The young mage had given a look towards the weapon, but Nasus had not moved to pick it up.

The jackal ambles in the direction of the open arches, feeling his millennium of life in every bone. He wonders how the other Ascended dealt with it, Setaka or Aatrox, the oldest of them all. Nasus knows she’s dead, but he still misses her wisdom and sharp tongue, the inspiring valour of a patient mentor. Aatrox’s status he is less sure of, Nasus would think him dead but he knows the whispers of the surviving Darkin. His sisters- and brothers-in-arms, of which some he is more familiar with than others. 

Some he cares for more than others.

The harsh sunlight of Shurima greets him as he steps forward, the ceiling providing little cover to the dry air. Nasus pauses with a hand on a pillar. He sees their guest with their head in their hands, seated on the lower steps leading to the terrace and the flora beyond. Unsure of his welcome, Nasus does not move. Only the sounds of their breaths fill the air between, with the stirrings of sand and the familiar scents of Shurima and blood that they share.

There is a helmet strewn on the ground next to the escapee. Worried, Nasus cautiously approaches, making his footfalls heard so as to not startled the figure in front of him. He pauses a few steps away.

“ _ Asab _ .”

“Don’t.” A strangled groan meets his ears and Nasus hesitates. Seeing his brother’s claws digging into his reptilian skull makes Nasus’ heart ache, it has been so long since his brother has been lucid enough to enunciate clearly and the first thing he does is harm himself. The protection of crocodile scales does little to reassure Nasus of the action. Finding his voice once more, he tries a different tactic, ignoring how heartless that word is.

“Renekton.”

If anything, it looks like that makes it worse, his brother clawing deeper at his skull and the wind picking up. Nasus wants to comfort if he remembers how to. Years of loneliness and self-imposed exile, with only the company of ghostly memories, has not helped with his social skills, which were already subpar.

Nasus bites back the self-deprecating chuckle as he watches, feeling helpless.

* * *

Hearing the “little brother”, so full of feelings that Renekton isn’t sure he can comprehend hurts his head. He sinks his claws into the crevasses of his scales. The growing pain grounds him and he feels the winds shift ever so slightly. There is silence.

“Renekton.”

And oh, that’s so different from how the Whisperer says it—all gentleness and sorrow and pain. Thinking of that Voice makes Renekton dig deeper into his leather hide and it’s fitting because he feels as drawn out and dried as one. The sandstorm starts up again and Renekton flinches when his name is repeated with a hesitant hand (paw) on his shoulder. He sighs, breathing in the debris-filled air and thinks,

peace. 

* * *

He steps forward, despite the warnings in his gut, feet scraping against the ground with the harsh prickles of gravel the only sensation he feels. The small sandstorm buffers Nasus but he strides forward to rest a hand on his brother’s shoulder, the only one he has left in the world, found again. 

There is a sound, quiet, and it makes Nasus want to cry because his brother has not been the young, innocent child in so long. He has not needed Nasus to protect him when all Nasus wanted to do was to make sure that Renekton was safe.

Nasus bites his tongue, wills the emotions away. He cannot make this about himself, not when Renekton has tried so hard to get this far. These moments of clarity were becoming more common and Nasus is very, very grateful for it. It was not long ago that Renekton was snarling for violence and death, for Nasus’ pain. While Nasus is relieved that he does not have to constantly be on edge at the palace, he is more so about the state of Renekton’s mind, on the path to healing.

Nasus himself, however, is confused because his grief clings to him. He still sees the moments in which he sealed the tomb in startling clearness. It is as fresh as the memory of Moneerah’s death at his hands. Nasus reminds himself that the body was not Renekton. But what if it was?

Nasus’ knees buckle. He catches himself, but Renekton notices and drags him to sit. He does, slowly, leaving space between the two of them. Nasus inhales, trying to release the image of the corpse he had created. Everything is imprinted into his mind and Nasus wonders how he still has room left to think.

Is this what he has become? Shurima’s brightest star, how far you have fallen, Nasus thinks, crippled by mere thoughts. He brushes away the title, hating himself for still holding onto it.

Another relic of his past and Nasus is just as unable to relinquish it, like all his memories and the loyalty for anyone he had ever cared about. All the lifelong friends, comrades, kind strangers, and the empire that served as the frame for the basis of his worth. The empire that calls for his loyalty despite her missing years and ruins. The empire that was built again to be populated with her beloved Azir’s soldiers.

Nasus flexes his hand, from where it had cramped. The pains were more common, but he brushes it aside. Instead, worry constantly gnaws at his mind for the future, for the inevitability of war. Renekton was brought here because it seemed safer. Although, who knows, with the looming dangers at every turn of the corner. 

Two factions, two leaders. One whose hubris led to the final straw for the Ascended and their minds, the other who warped Renekton’s after centuries of entrapment.

Azir and Xerath, whom both survived to the present day. Nasus does not have too strong an affection for either. The only one who would fulfill that role would be his younger brother. But how does one love someone who is lost?

Nasus sees Renekton at the corner of his eye. A gritted jaw and clenched hands. The vision of a boy from thousands of summers ago merges with the Ascended being before him.

You have to continue to try, Nasus thinks.

* * *

Ignoring the eerie blue light that haunts the underneath of his eyelids, Renekton breathes, grounds himself by the weight on his shoulder. 

It’s similar to old times. A scrap of memory surfaces and Renekton holds it close, the impression of honey on his knee and cloth held up at his nose, as Nasus wrapped a bandage around the dressing. The air tasted the same then, less sandy, perhaps, but still the same as today. Renekton thinks that it was usual for his older brother to clean up his wounds.

There’s a lot of things Renekton thinks now, but sometimes there’s a shadow that follows a memory, molasses threatening to swallow it whole with rage. A memory from the prison which held his mind and a sculptor, moulding it to the Whisperer’s liking. He shudders, almost displacing the hand (paw) on him. 

Nasus rubs a circle from Renekton’s deltoid to the base of his neck, and back to his shoulder, then removes his hand. 

It feels familiar and Renekton misses it. It feels like something important, hidden lessons in sparring matches and a stern teacher in an older brother, like the showers easing away his sweat, and the taste of beer to ease him into the night beyond. 

It feels familiar but Renekton doesn't know what to trust anymore. Not the Whisperer. Not himself. Not a silent guardian who looks over him as Renekton screams for his brother’s blood. 

There is something about that kindness he cannot trust anymore. Not with the Whisperer still in his mind, echoing words dripping with sympathy too sweet. Renekton doesn’t sigh, but exhales, catches Nasus as he falls. This feels familiar as well. Strikingly so.

Nothing but the winds fill their silence, the space filled with the words that brothers never say.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my docs since may oTL.
> 
> thanks for reading, peace.


End file.
